


Taste

by doridoripawaa



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Chamomile, Coffee, F/M, First Kiss, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27697318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doridoripawaa/pseuds/doridoripawaa
Summary: Dimitri goes to the local coffee shop every day to help him power through his university work.Too bad he can't actually taste anything.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Marianne von Edmund
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	Taste

_ “Demitri.” _

A tentative reach. An unsteady hand. A nervous glance. A resigned sigh.

That was definitely his macchiato, but that was definitely not his moniker.

“Thank you,” the blond young man murmured politely to the barista before he picked his cup off of the counter and headed off to his familiar seat in the coffeehouse. A booth in the corner, on the side facing the wall; he wasn’t opposed to watching people amble by as he worked, but he preferred to hide just how intrigued he was by the hubbub that rumbled inside the cafe. The murmurs and melodies that wafted on the air provided him with a sense of calm and gave him the proper mindset to dive into his reading and writing.

But the true inspiration came from the depths of his own brain.

Besides, eavesdropping was rude; he tried his best to tune out the actual content of others’ speech, instead riding the waves of their tones and inflections as he found inspiration to draft his latest essay.

Perhaps psychology wasn’t the most sensible major to pursue when his ultimate goal was to head to law school, but Dimitri could not resist the temptations of the inner workings of the mind. Not after everything he had endured.

Usually his mind was swimming and swarming with thoughts and themes, with concepts and creations, with insights and ideas. For better or for worse, his mind never rested. But today, as he drew a long sip of his macchiato, which filled his nose with sweet scents of caramel and cream, the blond’s mind was blank.

As empty as the taste that should have been tickling his tongue.

Without the colors of his thoughts painting canvases inside his head, Dimitri found his attention wandering to the mumbling and mysteries of the coffeehouse. To the ditsy pink-pigtailed barista who spelled his name wrong without fail. To the clatter of mugs that patrons picked up and placed down. To the symphony that was whistling through the speakers. To the timid barista with powder-blue hair who looked so serene as she hummed to herself.

So serene until one of her coworkers tapped her on the shoulder and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Marianne, it’s just me!” the pink-haired girl told her with a chuckle. “I just wanted to know if you fetched more chai from the back.”

Nodding feebly, Marianne murmured a reply, but Dimitri could not hear her words over the coffee machines or the chatter of the cafe customers. He smiled softly, sympathizing with her skittish nature -- the goddess knew he had his own insecurities and ghosts that plagued him at night. He wished he could give her some silent encouragement, but for now, he had research to do.

That would’ve been the end of Dimitri’s intrigue, the end of his inquiry.

But the young man returned the very next day, with his bulky backpack in tow.

“Hey! What can I get ya?” The pink-haired barista bounced up to the cash register, her twintails flouncing behind her as she moved. He snuck a glance at her nametag: Hilda.

“One… vanilla latte,” Dimitri decided as his eyes flitted over the menu. The caramel macchiato didn’t quite give him the drive and focus he needed to succeed -- perhaps a latte would do the trick. “For Dimitri.”

“Hot or iced, sir?”

“Hot,” Dimitri murmured. Ice tended to water down his drinks, and he didn’t want to pay for extra shots of espresso to give him the caffeine boost he needed.

That was the only reason he drank the coffee, after all. Energy. He had lost his sense of taste long ago.

“Gotcha! Hey Marianne, can you whip up a vanilla latte? It’s almost time for my break.”

“I… I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

She appeared again. The girl with hair the color of the sky and eyes the color of the earth. The girl with a taciturn attitude and a withdrawn posture. The girl whose lips were locked into a perpetual pout and her eyes were almost as sunken in as her cheeks, reflecting her prominent and perky cheekbones.

The girl who would’ve been beautiful if she didn’t look so… sad.

“Oh come oonnnnn Marianne!” The first barista, Hilda, rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips. “You drop  _ one  _ cup and--”

Marianne waved her hands frantically in front of her face. “N-no, I mean… didn’t you just get back from a break?” She nervously tucked some loose blue locks behind her ear, awkwardly trying to pin them to the braid that crowned her head with a spare hair pin.

“I… that is…” Hilda’s face flushed a deeper shade of carnation than her pigtails, and she began to splutter and spurt. “My break… you know… I’m… I’m a delicate flower, you know!” As if that explained everything, she huffed and began to stomp off, further back behind the counter, with her chin held high. “Vanilla latte!” she repeated, whirling around to point at Marianne’s chest. “Thanks hon!”

Fear.

Marianne looked up at Dimitri like a deer in the headlights. Her eyes were wide and sunken in like two rich cups of coffee without any sugar or cream to lighten their color or their mood. “W-what was the name again, sir?” she stammered, gripping the edge of her golden apron like a lifeline.

“Dimitri…”

He took a step back as she nodded furtively and whipped around to the menagerie of machines behind the counter. “Right, for a latte, I need… milk? Milk. Steamed milk.”

Dimitri was certainly not a barista, and he wasn’t a coffee connoisseur by any stretch of the imagination either, but he was fairly certain that making one cup of coffee was not supposed to take  _ this  _ long. He glanced at the clock, then at Marianne, then back at the clock. She was fumbling and fiddling and, if he wasn’t mistaken from the deep blush on her cheeks, fuming.

“I… Take your time,” he reassured her. “I’m in no hurry.” He cast a sidelong glance at his favorite booth, wanting to make sure that it was still vacant. He was safe for now.

“H-here you go,” Marianne mumbled as she finally extended her arm and held out a coffee cup for him. “D...D…”

“Dimitri! D-m-i-t-r-i!” Hilda chirped as she walked back out to the sales floor. “I’d recognize those clear blue eyes anywhere!” She beamed at him. “Soooo… turns out you were right, Marianne. It’s  _ your  _ break, not mine, and-- what were you doing in here?” Her eyes flew wildly around the room, assessing all of the spilled liquids, scattered coffee grinds, and flipped switches.

The wrong ones, apparently.

“Goddess, Marianne, that’s not even the right kind of coffee bean,” Hilda tutted as she stepped into the fray, gently elbowing her coworker out of the way. “First, you press this button,” she began, guiding Marianne through the steps. “And then… oh, Dimitri!”

Horror flashed over her usually rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes as she turned to see Dimitri raising the cup to his lips. Faint traces of bitter cacao, smooth vanilla, and spicy cinnamon danced around his nose. He wasn’t sure why the cinnamon was there, and the color was so dark he wondered if any milk was in the cup at all, but nevertheless he took a sip.

‘How warm.’

“Ohhh Dimitri, let us make you a fresh latte,” Hilda insisted, jumping up to the counter with her hands clasped in a pleading motion. “She’s new, you see, so, I should’ve been supervising. I’m very very sorry, but I can fix that, honest--”

“I like it.”

He wasn’t sure who looked more surprised: Hilda or Marianne. Both of them looked struck with disbelief, but Hilda’s was more fearful and doubtful while Marianne’s looked… relieved. Grateful, even.

“Thank you, Marianne.” Dimitri dipped his head respectfully. “Keep up the good work.”

That would’ve truly been the end of Dimitri’s intrigue, the end of his inquiry.

But then when he sat down in his favorite booth, facing the wall and the window and watching as sunlight filtered through the pane to scatter light across the tabletop, a sudden figure blocked the incoming light and filled his little nook with shadow.

"Th-thank you."

Marianne bowed her head, revealing just enough of the window behind her to allow some light to pour in and crest over the top of her head. The sunlight made her hair shine like the sea, highlighting every meticulously woven hair in her braid. The gentle hum of Beethoven in the background rose to a climax, and Dimitri had to pull his cup to his lips to prevent his jaw from dropping disrespectfully. 

"Apparently it is time for  _ my  _ break," Marianne went on softly. "But I want to practice so that next time, I can make you a proper latte."

She lifted her head again, and shadows obscured the booth. 

But he could see her face, and the small smile thereupon, shining brighter than the sun.

If only he could console her. If only he could reassure her that he would drink whatever she brewed for him, so long as it had caffeine.

Instead he just took another sip before giving her a brisk, courteous, "Thank you. I look forward to it."

* * *

Today,  _ Demetri  _ had ordered a chai latte.

Coffee was more appropriate for energy, but today he had a lot of reading to do, and so the soothing notes of chai would probably help his mind relax while still providing a little bit of a kick to power him through the dense material.

"Thank you, Hilda." Dimitri nodded to the barista before heading back to…

Oh. Someone was sitting in his booth today.

Wait. Was that  _ Marianne _ ?

Dimitri decided to take the risk and walk up to his booth anyway. "May I?"

No response.

"Marianne, was it? May I sit across from you?"

The young woman looked up from her notebook and jumped, nearly crashing her knees into the table. "I am so sorry, sir!" she blurted out as she began to fold up her notes. "I will…"

Dimitri waved a hand dismissively. "You can stay," he reassured her. "I'll be quiet. I'm studying anyway."

Marianne nodded sheepishly and gestured to the seat across from her. Dimitri bowed his head in acknowledgement and slid into the booth, gently placing his cup of chai on the table before him.

"Chai latte," Marianne whispered. "I don't mean to pry, but…" Her voice trailed off uncomfortably, and she lowered her head as she tucked some loose hair behind her ear. "Never mind."

Dimitri raised an eyebrow. "Marianne, you can speak your mind when you're with me," he tried to assure her. "I'd like to think I'm not that intimidating."

Well, he was tall, he was broad-shouldered, he was toned, he carried his chin high, he usually wore his varsity jacket, and he had a reputation for being "princely" and "attractive."

Maybe he was a  _ smidge  _ intimidating.

His words seemed to console her, though, and Marianne lifted her gaze to his cup once again. "Do you order something different every time you come?" she asked at last. "I don't believe I've ever seen you order the same drink twice. You must have a very sensitive, particular palate."

"That's very flattering, but actually, I don’t have any taste at all."

Silence. Only the chatter of customers and the latest Top 50 song murmuring through the speakers broke the tension, which Dimitri felt he could cut with a sword.

"No taste?" Marianne echoed. "You mean, you don't have any preferences?"

"No. I lost my sense of taste as a child."

Silence again. For the first time, Marianne looked directly into Dimitri's eyes. In their mocha depths he saw surprise, sympathy, and sadness all swirling together. "So… why do you pay for expensive brews?"

_ That  _ was what she wanted to ask him?

"It would make more sense to order a simple black coffee," she went on. "You could get two of those for the price of one cinnamon sugar latte or caramel macchiato."

He had just confided in her that he could not taste, and instead of asking about his past and awakening his trauma, she asked about his wallet.

The psychology student in him itched to psychoanalyze her. The human in him simply chuckled and curled his hands around his cup of tea.

"I can smell," he explained. "For instance, I bought chai today so I could smell the traces of nutmeg and clove, of cinnamon and spice, and I hoped that it would calm me but also give me energy to plow through some dense reading." He pulled his textbook out of his bag to demonstrate.

"Oh! You're a psychology major? Me too!"

Had he ever seen Marianne's eyes sparkle before? 

"But…" Marianne's eyes dropped to the table again. "You can't taste the interplay of those elements. You can't taste how the smooth milk weaves in with the tea, creating a unique character that almost resembles a cinnamon milkshake more than a traditional cup of tea. You can't embrace the subtleties of having cinnamon in one sip and clove in the next, and wondering which spice will delight your senses each time." Marianne was a barista for a reason; she was remarkably passionate about her beverages and brews. "My boss Lorenz would weep at the thought."

Dimitri lifted his cup to his lips. He inhaled deeply, and he was able to detect faint traces of all of those spices. As he drank, he could feel the smooth liquid trickling down his throat. But she was right; he could not distinguish the minute differences and changes in flavor that each new sip brought. "Marianne, may I ask you a favor?" he whispered.

"A favor?" She repeated his word tentatively, and a soft sprinkle of scarlet flickered across her cheeks. "I… I'm kind of a mess," she laughed. "I'd probably ruin whatever you asked me to do."

Dimitri shook his head. "No. You've already proven yourself." He reached across the table, and he lifted his sturdy hand to Marianne's bangs. With a single swipe of his fingers, he brushed the messy locks behind her ears, parting them enough to reveal her eyebrows and her thick eyelashes, dotted haphazardly with blue mascara. "Teach me about all of these drinks. About your favorite drinks. Your descriptions were exquisite." He smiled softly at her. "Maybe I can finally find a drink that I enjoy, instead of drinking just for fuel."

Marianne gingerly raised her shaky hand to meet Dimitri's. She pressed her petite palm against his thick one, and then suddenly she shifted her hand until only her pinky was left touching his pinky. Carefully she bent her own finger to catch his in its crook, and for the first time, Marianne genuinely smiled.

"I would be honored."

* * *

Cinnamon.

Nutmeg.

Clove.

Ginger.

Caramel.

Vanilla.

Peppermint.

Mocha.

Chocolate.

Matcha.

Citrus.

Marianne guided him through the whole world of teas and coffees, sometimes taking him to her favorite places on the menu (lavender tea), and other times allowing him to select a new beverage at random. She took care to be the one to make his drinks, or at least to be the one writing his name on the cup:  _ Dimitri. _

Hilda still tried to take the credit, though.

A simple exchange of phone numbers was all it took for Dimitri and Marianne to coordinate their visits: he would always make a point to be there during her break, so she could explain every nuance and flavor to him with precision.

"Trust me," she would say every time. "Trust your nose, but trust your barista, too."

Today was Dimitri's turn to choose, however, and as he strode up to the counter, he already knew what he wanted to order.

"One medium cup of chamomile," Dimitri recited to the barista, a man who he had only seen once or twice before. A man with a twitchy nose, a horrendous haircut, and lavender locks. Was this the infamous Lorenz? 'Poor Marianne,' was all that Dimitri could think as he graciously plucked his cup off the edge of the table. 

Marianne was already at their booth, and she delicately raised her hand to wave him over. "What do you have today?" she inquired as he slid into the booth. The sun was shining directly onto the table at this hour, illuminating both of their cups and their hands.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he murmured, "but I already know how this one tastes."

Marianne's confident expression began to waver. "Oh… is that so?"

Dimitri kicked himself underneath the table. 'That could've been more tactful!' he scolded himself. "I mean, this was a childhood favorite of mine," he went on. "I can remember the taste almost as vividly as… before."

"I see…" Marianne murmured. She narrowed her eyes as she tried to read the cursive on the side of the cup. "Chamomile?" she guessed. As Dimitri nodded in affirmation, she slid down in her seat and began to fiddle with the edges of her apron. "Perhaps that's for the best," she laughed, although the sound was hollow rather than hearty.

"Why is that?" Dimitri asked, as he lifted his cup to take a long, soothing sip.

"I've never tasted chamomile."

It took every ounce of willpower for Dimitri to swallow the tea instead of spitting it out everywhere in his shock. "Would you care to try?" he asked, pushing his cup towards her.

Marianne waved her hands frantically in front of her face. "Oh no!" she mumbled. "I could never… take away from your favorite tea," she whispered. 

"Well then, maybe I could describe it for you?" the young man offered as he pulled his cup back towards his face. He took a deep whiff of the tea, allowing the familiar scent to flood his nose and his brain. "It's very earthy," he began. "But also light and floral."

Every word brought him leaning in closer, and much to his surprise, Marianne leaned in closer too, hanging on his every word. "Go on," she whispered. "Is it like a rose tea?"

Dimitri shook his head softly, and his stringy blond bangs swayed from side to side. "The floral hints are more of an aftertaste," he clarified, and he found himself propping his elbows up on the table upon which to rest his chin. Marianne copied him. "And then there's a trace of apple, which is hard to smell," he admitted, "but I remember that's what that fruity taste was."

"Sounds divine," Marianne murmured, her eyelids fluttering as she imagined the flavor, tried to let his descriptions overtake her mind. "Perhaps I shall try it on my next break."

But Dimitri wanted her to confirm the flavor  _ now. _

Earthy. Floral. Fruity.

A second of boldness. A second of tea. A second of bliss.

Three simple seconds that added up to one extraordinary kiss.

Neither of them seemed to realize what had happened until Dimitri pulled away. "I… That is…"

As soon as he regained a bearing on his surroundings and his conscience, Dimitri felt his cheeks flare up. "That is… chamomile," he muttered at last, unsure of how to explain or justify his actions. Should he apologize?

He dared to raise his eyes to Marianne, whose soft fingertips were pressed against her lips. Would she berate him? Kick him out of the shop? Get  _ Hilda  _ to literally kick him out of the shop? Would she cry? That would probably be worst of all.

The young woman, however, instead looked radiant as the sunlight from the window illuminated the subtle smile on her lips. "I… I think I like chamomile.

I think I like chamomile a lot."


End file.
